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    Paradise Lost
    Paradise Lost
    Paradise Lost
    Ebook763 pages12 hours

    Paradise Lost

    By John Milton and John A. Himes

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    John Milton's great 17th-century epic draws upon Bible stories and classical mythology to explore the meaning of existence, as understood by people of the Western world. Its roots lie in the Genesis account of the world's creation and the first humans. Its focus is a poetic interpretation "Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit / Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste / Brought death into the world, and all our woe / With loss of Eden."
    In sublime poetry of extraordinary beauty, Milton's poem references tales from Ovid's Metamorphoses, Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, and Virgil's Aeneid. But one need not be a classical scholar to appreciate Paradise Lost. In addition to its imaginative use of language, the poem features a powerful and sympathetic portrait of Lucifer, the rebel angel who frequently outshines his moral superiors. With Milton's deft use of irony, the devil makes evil appear good, just as satanic practices may seem attractive at first glance.
    Paradise Lost has exercised enormous influence on generations of artists and their works, ranging from the Romantic poets William Blake and Percy Bysshe Shelley to Joseph Haydn's oratorio The Creation and J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateMay 4, 2012
    ISBN9780486113241
    Author

    John Milton

    John Milton was a seventeenth-century English poet, polemicist, and civil servant in the government of Oliver Cromwell. Among Milton’s best-known works are the classic epic Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, considered one of the greatest accomplishments in English blank verse, and Samson Agonistes. Writing during a period of tremendous religious and political change, Milton’s theology and politics were considered radical under King Charles I, found acceptance during the Commonwealth period, and were again out of fashion after the Restoration, when his literary reputation became a subject for debate due to his unrepentant republicanism. T.S. Eliot remarked that Milton’s poetry was the hardest to reflect upon without one’s own political and theological beliefs intruding.

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    Reviews for Paradise Lost

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    • 4/5
      Formidabel kosmisch epos, met vooral in de eerste helft grote scheppende kracht, maar daarna “verworden” tot een uitgebreide navertelling van Genesis. Nochtans zijn de delen over het scheppingverhaal en de menselijke zondeval (vooral de interactie tussen Adam en Eva is meest poëtisch). Weinig actie, behalve in de strijdtaferelen, de tweede helft is vooral verhalend
    • 3/5
      I wasn't exactly sure what I was getting myself into, but this telling of the creation and the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise was entertaining even though the writing was a bit different from what I am used to.I found it amusing that according to Milton Sin and Death were the offspring of Satan and that Chaos' consort is Night with Confusion and Discord along for the ride.The manner of using words as names for creatures was very inventive.Rarely, do I like Classics this old, but this one worked f or me.
    • 5/5
      There's all this debate over why Satan is so appealing in Paradise Lost. Did Milton screw up? Is he being cynical, or a double-secret atheist? And why is God such a dick?

      No one ever asks that about Iago, though, to whom I think Milton's Satan owes a debt. No one asks whether Shakespeare screwed up in making Iago so much fun; they just give him credit for, y'know, writing an awesome villain. And that's all Milton's doing. Satan is tempting for us because Satan is tempting for us. That's the point of Satan! If Milton didn't make him as appealing as possible, he'd be doing Satan a disservice. And Eve, for that matter.

      Similarly, God's a dick because God's a dick. You've read the Old Testament. He's not exactly all flowers and hugs there either. Again, Milton's just being true to his characters, and writing a great story while he's at it.

      There’s slightly more to it than that, yeah. For example: it's hinted, albeit obtusely, that God sets Satan up to fall. He gives a stern warning that anyone who disobeys him or his son will be cast out of Heaven. But since there's no sin or evil at the time of his speech, why give the warning? Isn't that like saying "Don't touch these cookies while I'm gone" to a kid who didn't realize there were cookies until you pointed them out? I get why people spend their entire careers arguing over this thing.

      Here’s my advice to people considering reading Paradise Lost: read the first two books. It starts with a bang, and it’s pretty amazing for a while. It slows down a bit in books III - VII, so if you’re not totally sold in the first two books (I was), you can either quit altogether with a fair idea of what Milton sounds like, or skip to books IX and X. IX is the actual temptation and fall (especially fun if you’re a misogynist), and X is an astonishing sequence where Adam and Eve contemplate suicide:

      "Why am I mocked with death, and lengthened out
      To deathless pain? How gladly would I meet
      Mortality my sentence...
      his dreadful voice no more
      Would thunder in my ears." (Adam, X.774 - 780)

      “We’ve totally mucked this up, and our kids are gonna justifiably hate us because we got kicked out of Paradise, and maybe we should just quit while we’re behind.”

      But really, the whole thing is worth it. Took me a while – it’s intense stuff, so I found that I had to read a book and then chew on it for a while to process it before moving to the next one – but it’s cool.

      In book VIII, if you’re cosmologically minded, Milton lays out the whole universe. Like Giordano Bruno, he understands that our earth is a tiny speck in the universe, and he gets that all the stars are suns like ours, and therefore could have planets like ours around them. He also thinks they might be inhabited; our species might not be God's only experiment. Elsewhere, other Adams and Eves may have faced the same test of the Tree of Knowledge - and they might have passed it. Isn't that an amazing thought?

      In books XI and XII, Michael tells Adam sortof all the rest of the stories in the Old Testament, which of course boil down to:

      “So shall the world go on,
      To good malignant, to bad men benign,
      Under her own weight groaning.” (XII 537 – 539)

      That’s your fault there, Adam. Nice work.

      He rushes through them though, and it makes me wonder whether Milton had originally intended to retell the entire Old Testament but got bored or intimidated or something. That would’ve been remarkable. Certainly Paradise Lost is better literature than the Old Testament is, and significantly more coherent.

      It’s also better literature than almost everything else. It’s pretty awesome. Probably the second-best poem by a blind guy ever. I give it two thumbs up.
    • 5/5
      This was very powerful. I am not the most religious person in the world, but I found the subject matter intensely interesting. The poetic beauty of Milton words captivated me throughout the course of the work. Sadly, I tried "Paradise Regained" but I did not get far into the read before I became disinterested. I guess we are fascinated more by evil than goodness. Sad. I may retry "Paradise Regained" but I fail to see how it can be as moving as "Paradise Lost."
    • 4/5
      I'd be lying if I said I understood and enjoyed every word of Paradise Lost, but there's no getting around the fact that it's beautiful and terrifying and provoking. It's definitely a book that requires many rereadings.
    • 5/5
      This epic poem is stunning; a magnificent read all the way. I loved it.
    • 4/5
      We had read selections of this book in my AP Lit class in high school, but as always, selections don't tell the whole story. I love reading religious literature, and this being one of the most famous epic poems in that genre, I quite enjoyed it. As an interesting aside, I did, however, find Lucifer/Satan to be far more sympathetic than he comes across in the Bible. I don't know if this was intentional on Milton's part, or simply something that was a result of describing his motivations.
    • 4/5
      I expected to have more trouble reading Milton's Paradise Lost than I actually did, mostly because it's written in blank verse. As a matter of fact, that didn't matter much. It flows wonderfully and it's great to read aloud. The rhythms and the way the words were strung together were just lovely -- my synaesthesia just pretty much regarded it as a feast! I also enjoyed the classical sort of structure, which reminded me of the Aeneid.

      I didn't so much enjoy the characterisation of Eve or the angels, and it doesn't fit with my view of Christianity, but that didn't keep from enjoying reading it.
    • 4/5
       This was somewhat slow going, but worth the effort to persevere with it. I had the oxford Classics verison, which phas an essay at the beginning to put the poem into context, which was helpful. it also had footnotes for references in the text to classical legends and diffiocult worrds or phrasings, which was very useful!

      The text concerns the biblical acocunt of creaction and the expulsion of Adam & Eve from paradise - hence the title. Regardless of if you believe, it makes for a really good read, but takes a little effort to get into it each time. The text has a hypnotic flow and rhythm to it. Tthe language is sometimes a little obscure, but not excessively so, it isn't like every line requires serious explanation. There are also a large number of legends worked into the text, all building this into a complex mass of intertwined threads, rather than a straightforward retelling of the same story. It is also one of those works that you realise has been referenced in other books you've read - the number of times I found myself thinking "I've read something like that before" and realising that it was a reference to Milton that I'd not known at the time. It was excellent, but I'm going for something a little lighter next time!
    • 5/5
      Milton cria um diabo carismático e persuasivo, que clama: "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven".
    • 4/5
      We had read selections of this book in my AP Lit class in high school, but as always, selections don't tell the whole story. I love reading religious literature, and this being one of the most famous epic poems in that genre, I quite enjoyed it. As an interesting aside, I did, however, find Lucifer/Satan to be far more sympathetic than he comes across in the Bible. I don't know if this was intentional on Milton's part, or simply something that was a result of describing his motivations.
    • 4/5
      I never would have picked this up on my own, but reading it for class gave me a real appreciation for all the effort Milton put in to composing this piece. It was fun to try to reconcile my own beliefs with what Milton puts forth as the narrative of the Fall(s), and after a while, I think I actually enjoyed reading it. Maybe. Or I just got used to it, at least.
    • 4/5
      I had dreaded taking a class on this but ended up absolutely loving the text. I didn't like my professor and his ideas so much, but found that the text stands on its own as excellent literature, which is something I can't say for Shakespeare.
    • 5/5
      Quite a read for a poet! My first journey with an epic poem in its entirety, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Too many lines of good verses to name--phrases that inspired me for their deft command of language--and a great amount of passages that left me feeling triumphant. One of the simplest lines I liked the most, spoken to the Son: "Two days are therefore pass'd, the third is thine"; and a favorite passage, sung to the Creator: "Who seeks To lessen thee, against his purpose serves To manifest the more thy might: his evil Thou usest, and from thence creat'st more good."I was impressed with what creativity the characters' experiences and emotions were developed. Story-wise, my favorite character is the Son, the unmatched warrior amid all the hosts of heaven who compassionately serves as intercessor for fallen humankind. This classic presents a challenge to me, both as a poet and as a novelist.
    • 5/5
      A grand sprawling epic. I can't possibly say anything good about it that has not already been repeated.

      I am fortunate enough to have a brand new edition with lots of annotations and references. Layers upon layers of allegory and myth and history and religion and fable. Deserves infinite rereadings.
    • 5/5
      I read this many years ago and thought that it was actually a very fascinating read compared to other literature of its day. I loved the style and language in which it was written, and I think that makes me enjoy it all the more. I am sure that I will read it again very soon.
    • 4/5
      Milton gets extra points for scope and ambition, but I have to admit that he tends toward the preachy (rather than allowing his characters to illustrate their own morals), plus some of his theology struck me as a bit simple-minded. That said, the descriptions of hell remain both beautiful and terrible -- unparalleled in the English language.
    • 5/5
      I originally read this in response to finishing The Golden Compass series. Pullman spoke about Paradise Lost as one of the main inspirations for some of his thinking. Though I did study literature, I never had any intention of reading this work. I am so glad that I did. There are lines in there that move the heart and mind of course, the imagery gave me bad dreams, and it the experience is something that I will keep forever.Talk about closure, the last lines gave me so much hope and made me feel electric.
    • 5/5
      This one definitely makes the short list of must reads. It's great poetry and I enjoyed the effect of its having originally been in English. It's also a great interpretation of the creation story; I observed a number of new ideas as well as some that I myself have posited and refuted. More than anything else I've read, Milton does a superb job of bringing out the essence of the situation, the passions that were felt, and the reason for each event.
    • 5/5
      Certainly one of the best poems ever written in English!
    • 4/5
      Seeing as I took a class - an entire class, an entire semester dedicated to the reading of this single novel, I was praying I was going to enjoy it. And what heavy metal fan couldn't enjoy the battle of God vs. Satan? The fall of Satan from heaven is a brilliantly written tale and there is so much meaning within every stanza of this epic book. There has to be, I spent 3 months reading it and I think I even got a B in this class.
    • 5/5
      How can I even write a review of John Milton and perhaps one of the ultimate works in the English language? You don’t. I’ll only say that after completing “Paradise Lost,” I wrote a huge amount of discordant information in my personal journal and reread enormous sections of the book. The introduction and notation provided in the Barnes & Noble edition of “Paradise Lost” by David Hawkes was invaluable to my enjoyment and understanding. And the ending comments provided in this edition from such noted authors as Thomas Gray, William Blake and Wordsworth brought about a level of appreciation and understanding I did not anticipate.
    • 4/5
      Although this is not a light read and will require thought and maybe some research (on my part at least) to fully understand milton's meanings, this book is at very least profound. Milton's writing style has yet to be matched by any I've seen.
    • 5/5
      As this was my first epic read, I cannot profess to be well-trained as to the vastness of other works, but the beauty of this work lies in its broad overview of Scripture, character, and life. Not merely striking the main points of Eden, as I was expecting, but surveying large portions of history. It felt huge without being overly laborious to read.The wording was not nearly as stilted as I was lead to believe it would be, though at times the footnotes were indispensable--I am still rather ignorant of many of his references.A wonderful work that I hope to reread in time.
    • 4/5
      Another one of those freshman English assigments I cribbed my way through. When I reread it finally as an adult I was astonished. I returned to it because of Mike Carey's Lucifer and Steven Brust's To Reign in Hell, contemporary fantasy on the same themes. And I was surprised and delighted to find depth of character and excitement in a Stuffy Old Classic.
    • 4/5
      I have been wanting/intending to read this for a long time. I don't think I was ever required to read it in school other than maybe some small excerpts. I've always enjoyed epic poetry like this and found Milton's imagery and language exceptional. On the down side, I was struck by his negative portrayal of Eve (Adam, of course, was pure as the driven snow until he ate the apple just to please her) and her exclusion from many of the scenes highlighted Milton's patriarchal bias.Aesthetically, this edition by the Folio Society is awesome. Blake's illustrations are magnificent and the layout and design of the edition is impressive. The choice of font and it's size makes it much easier for me to read then when I attempt to read a long poem like this stuffed into small print.
    • 4/5
      Milton wrote a great poem but it's also a byproduct of its day - 1667 - and he views events and characters very much through the male gaze; as do all organized religions and which the poem references. Thus, the apple on the tree of knowledge was (imo) something a religious-minded white Portuguese male would regard as sinful. As it stands, the sin no longer applies. It is 2005, eating the apple amounts to doing just that; eating an apple. Unless you have the apple representing something else, i.e., update the sin attached to it. What if it the apple was meant to test the consequence of giving Adam and Eve free will? See what they'd do with it? It's almost as if Satan was allowed to escape hell because it was part of God's bigger plan. Of course - so that man could LOVE God of his own free will. Even the simple act of eating does of course symbolise our interactivity, our symbiosis, with nature - that in itself bears a responsibility. So, the apple was an interface in a way between mankind abnegating responsibility to God's will and being participatory in it instead. That's Evolution! Moral certainty of sin/grace evolved too - quite rightly into today's concept of contingency and context.In my book Milton is the main man, the Yeats of his day, but with a much less comedic outcome and overall strike rate of gags. Cromwell’s PR man and a life spiralling out of control, the linguistic mouthpiece for himself first and discovered deeper than anyone sane person would hope to emulate or seriously hope to outlive as a narrative of reality the fates allotted exquisitely and which has long been understood in the brythonic tradition, that each life is unique and a poem in itself. Milton went blind, the cruelest fate but one which propelled him to the highest ridge of poetic attainment, forged in the turbulent bloodletting in which his first robust roar for himself first as the poet of a revolution; like Mayakovsky, fate put him in a certain space and time and he surrendered to the powerful spiritual combination of his intellect and passion, and it is befitting, though entirely tragic, that the first seriously poetic cornerstone figure whose gravitas came from the real life antics his person was part and often a central linguistic force affecting not to mirror as the Luna light of William Shakespeare did in far less personally turbulent times when he struck the primary metrical coinage of modern English bardic lore; but acting as the show and pazzaz, the me, me, me of being needy, very clever, broke the mould and everyone since conspires to make the best of a poor do with this chap, who let's face it, we read far less of than beyond a few verses before switching off, knowing we are being offered caviar, but preferring instead the real staple of British poetic. Rustics we are, as well as morons clotted whimsies, we indulge in because intellectually, we are all “me arse”, and as Graves said, admitting Milton is the British genius, should not blind us to the basic error which is the very grain, grease and premise of poetry, the binary opposite set of circumstance and premise which create the journey and object of linguistic artifice we call poetry.And Milton discovered it at a terrible cost of a new national poetic born in less than charitable times, a most intellectually fascinating, but less natural than Shakespeare; he’s a great source of refuge for the fire and brimstone mobs; one can imagine his frenzies fed to direct action, like Cromwell, possessed by a warp spasm of uncontrollable madness when the Muse was in full flight, inventing the terrors only too, too real, and so Milton is extremely strong proof, best for whipping one's rabble into shape with him and Cromwell, two very divisive national martyrs who have a high regard domestically but globally are seen as fundamentally flawed perhaps; life's too short for taking on Milton in one mad binge, and really one needs next to none of him, as he cannot be cooked up to offer us anything other than mad loathing and foaming, a terrible wisdom bought at horrific cost, and after him the artificial decorum of the new bores in the coffee shops which exploded in 18th Century London, where Horribles got together and bitched, the blind leading the suicidal bad vibe, which I think it is fair to say, is essentially, supremely competitive.Please adopt me as your protégé Milton; I want to carry the rumens' flame to the next generation of young poets seeking to set out into the treacherous straits of amateur verse, just how to set about switching over to be a pro, to attain that gravitas only our most ennobling examples of savvy exotica we concoct in the thoroughly unpleasant and incredibly jealous septic tank heritage Milton and various other chaps had no fun inventing.NB: My wife and I once saw a dramatisation of “Paradise Lost”. In the first, before the Fall scenes, Adam and Eve were completely naked in the Garden of Eden and, no doubt as a result of their cuddling, Adam soon got rather a splendid but no doubt unwanted, erection. This distraction was, as I pointed out to my wife, sadly appropriate since the early Christian church maintained that before the Fall, Adam was able to control his penis at will. This postlapsarian actor, of course, could not.
    • 4/5
      The parts I understood were lovely, lol.
    • 4/5
      Okay, I only read part of it, and it was for college. It was incredibly well written and entertaining. My only issue is the complete lack of biblical credibility. It's LOOSELY based on the three little chapters that it covers in the Bible and takes A LOT of artistic license. In doing so, it tells a few outright lies.

      I take comfort in that I doubt anyone takes their biblical knowledge from it.
    • 5/5
      This book was fantastic, but wasn't quite as good as Dante's work. Still, one of my favorites.

    Book preview

    Paradise Lost - John Milton

    e9780486113241_i0001.jpg

    DOVER GIANT THRIFT EDITIONS

    GENERAL EDITOR: MARY CAROLYN WALDREP

    EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: SUSAN L. RATTINER

    Copyright

    Copyright © 2005 by Dover Publications, Inc.

    All rights reserved.

    Bibliographical Note

    This Dover edition, first published in 2005, is an unabridged republication of the poem and notes from Paradise Lost, A Poem in Twelve Books, by John Milton; with an introduction and notes on its structure and meaning by John A. Himes, as originally published by Harper & Brothers, New York and London, in 1898. A new introductory Note has been specially prepared for the present edition.

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    Milton, John, 1608–1674.

    Paradise lost / John Milton ; notes by John A. Himes.

    p. cm.—(Dover giant thrift editions)

    This Dover edition, first published in 2005, is an unabridged republication of the poem and notes from Paradise lost, a poem in twelve books, by John Milton; with an introduction and notes on its structure and meaning by John A. Himes, as originally published by Harper & Brothers, New York and London, in 1898. A new introductory note has been specially prepared for the present edition—T.p. verso.

    9780486113241

    1. Bible. O.T. Genesis—History of Biblical events—Poetry. 2. Adam (Biblical figure)—Poetry. 3. Eve (Biblical figure)—Poetry. 4. Fall of man—Poetry. I. Title. II. Series.

    PR3560 2005

    821’.4—dc22

    2004061879

    Manufactured in the United States by Courier Corporation

    44287X03

    www.doverpublications.com

    Note

    WITH THE publication of Paradise Lost, John Milton (1608–1674) had finally realized his long-standing ambition to write an epic poem based upon such classical models as the Iliad and the Aeneid. During the seventeenth century, the epic was considered the greatest creative achievement possible, and Milton sought to pen the definitive English epic, following conventions established by Homer and Virgil. Although he had originally planned his theme around the Arthurian legends, Milton decided to focus instead on the Book of Genesis in the Bible. Centering on the fall of Adam and Eve and their restoration to God’s favor, the epic ranges over time from the rebellion of Satan and his followers in Heaven to Judgment Day. In his narration of the most significant biblical events, Milton offers a comprehensive account of Christian belief and values.

    The son of a wealthy scrivener and accomplished composer of madrigals, John Milton had a privileged upbringing. His prosperous family was able to provide for him the very best of educations. After private tutoring, the young boy entered St. Paul’s School and Christ’s College, Cambridge, and was then supported through five years of independent study. Ultimately, he was sent on a two-year tour of Europe to further enhance his knowledge. During this period of his learning, Milton began writing his most famous poetry, including the masque Comus and the elegy Lycidas, as well as other poems in both English and Latin. He traveled extensively in France and Italy in the 1630s, meeting the jurist and theologian Hugo Grotius and the astronomer Galileo, who was then under house arrest by the Inquisition in Florence.

    In 1642, he was wed—his first of three marriages—to a woman half his age, but she returned to her family after only one month. Her desertion encouraged him to compose The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce (1643), in which he upheld the morality of divorce for incompatibility. The pair did eventually reconcile, but she died in childbirth in 1652. He married twice more, the last being the happiest.

    Concerned with the Puritan cause, Milton wrote a series of pamphlets defending civil and religious rights. In 1649 he served as secretary to Oliver Cromwell, for whom he handled correspondence with foreign nations and was apologist to the Commonwealth. In 1652 Milton lost his eyesight from his grueling work, and the poet Andrew Marvell became his assistant. After the Restoration of Charles II in 1660, Milton was arrested as a defender of the Commonwealth and massively fined, but escaped imprisonment and death, due in part to Marvell’s effusive protests on his behalf. Now aging and blind, Milton recited his verse to one of his two daughters, who wrote his poem down for him. He continued to dictate Paradise Lost for several more years before publishing his masterpiece in 1667 in ten books. It was followed in 1671 by its sequel, Paradise Regained. In 1674 Milton revised Paradise Lost into twelve books (as the classical epics were divided), and published this second edition with commendatory poems by seventeenth-century poet Samuel Barrow and Andrew Marvell.

    Milton’s powerful prose and the eloquence of his poetry had an immense influence on the development of eighteenth-century verse. His blank-verse poem influenced many subsequent authors and artists, including John Dryden, William Blake, and C. S. Lewis. Milton’s success from Paradise Lost stems not only from the sheer beauty of its language and powerful characterization, but also endures in the high esteem in which the poem is held to this day. The content of the poem itself, which delves into universal questions on the nature of good and evil, continues to enthrall generations of readers. In the conclusion to his critical essay on Paradise Lost, Samuel Johnson sums up Milton’s stature as an epic poet with the following:

    The highest praise of genius is original invention. Milton cannot be said to have contrived the structure of an epic poem, and therefore owes reverence to that vigor and amplitude of mind to which all generations must be indebted for the art of poetical narration, for the texture of the fable, the variation of incidents, the interposition of dialogue, and all the stratagems that surprise and enchain attention. But, of all the borrowers from Homer, Milton is perhaps the least indebted. He was naturally a thinker for himself, confident of his own abilities, and disdainful of help or hindrance: he did not refuse admission to the thoughts or images of his predecessors, but he did not seek them. From his contemporaries he neither courted nor received support; there is in his writings nothing by which the pride of other authors might be gratified, or favor gained; no exchange of praise, nor solicitation of support. His great works were performed under discountenance, and in blindness, but difficulties vanished at his touch; he was born for whatever is arduous, and his work is not the greatest of heroic poems, only because it is not the first.

    Table of Contents

    Title Page

    DOVER GIANT THRIFT EDITIONS

    Copyright Page

    Note

    THE VERSE

    BOOKI I - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK II - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK III - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK IV - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK V - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK VI - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK VII - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK VIII - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK IX - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK X - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK XI - THE ARGUMENT

    BOOK XII - THE ARGUMENT

    NOTES

    DOVER • THRIFT • EDITIONS

    THE VERSE

    THE measure is English heroic verse without rime, as that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin-rime being no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse, in longer works especially, but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame metre; graced indeed since by the use of some famous modern poets, carried away by custom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse, than else they would have expressed them. Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rime both in longer and shorter works, as have also long since our best English tragedies, as a thing of itself, to all judicious ears, trivial and of no true musical delight; which consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings—a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory. This neglect then of rime so little is to be taken for a defect, though it may seem so perhaps to vulgar readers, that it rather is to be esteemed an example set, the first in English, of ancient liberty recovered to heroic poem from the troublesome and modern bondage of riming.

    BOOKI I

    THE ARGUMENT

    THIS First Book proposes, first in brief, the whole subject—Mans disobedience, and the loss thereupon of Paradise, wherein he was placed: then touches the prime cause of his fall—the Serpent, or rather Satan in the Serpent; who, revolting from God, and drawing to his side many legions of Angels, was, by the command of God, driven out of Heaven, with all his crew, into the great Deep. Which action passed over, the Poem hastens into the midst of things; presenting Satan, with his Angels, now fallen into Hell—described here not in the Centre (for heaven and earth may be supposed as yet not made, certainly not yet accursed), but in a place of utter darkness, fitliest called Chaos. Here Satan, with his Angels lying on the burning lake, thunderstruck and astonished, after a certain space recovers, as from confusion; calls up him who, next in order and dignity, lay by him: they confer of their miserable fall. Satan awakens all his legions, who lay till then in the same manner confounded. They rise: their numbers; array of battle; their chief leaders named, according to the idols known afterwards in Canaan and the countries adjoining. To these Satan directs his speech; comforts them with hope yet of regaining Heaven; but tells them, lastly, of a new world and new kind of creature to be created, according to an ancient prophecy, or report, in Heaven—for that Angels were long before this visible creation was the opinion of many ancient Fathers. To find out the truth of this prophecy, and what to determine thereon, he refers to a full council. What his associates thence attempt. Pandemonium, the palace of Satan, rises suddenly built out of the Deep: the infernal Peers there sit in council.

    Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit

    Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

    Brought death into the World, and all our woe,

    With loss of Eden, till one greater Man

    Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,

    Sing, Heavenly Muse, that, on the secret top

    Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire

    That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed

    In the beginning how the heavens and earth

    Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill

    Delight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flowed

    Fast by the oracle of God, I thence

    Invoke thy aid to my adventrous song,

    That with no middle flight intends to soar

    Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues

    Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

    And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer

    Before all temples the upright heart and pure,

    Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the first

    Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread,

    Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast Abyss,

    And mad’st it pregnant: what in me is dark

    Illumine, what is low raise and support;

    That, to the highth of this great argument,

    I may assert Eternal Providence,

    And justify the ways of God to men.

    Say first—for Heaven hides nothing from thy view,

    Nor the deep tract of Hell—say first what cause

    Moved our grand Parents, in that happy state,

    Favored of Heaven so highly, to fall off

    From their Creator, and transgress his will

    For one restraint, lords of the World besides.

    Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?

    The infernal Serpent; he it was whose guile,

    Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived

    The mother of mankind, what time his pride

    Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host

    Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring

    To set himself in glory above his peers,

    He trusted to have equalled the Most High,

    If he opposed, and, with ambitious aim

    Against the throne and monarchy of God,

    Raised impious war in Heaven and battle proud,

    With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power

    Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,

    With hideous ruin and combustion, down

    To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

    In adamantine chains and penal fire,

    Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.

    Nine times the space that measures day and night

    To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew,

    Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,

    Confounded, though immortal. But his doom

    Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought

    Both of lost happiness and lasting pain

    Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes,

    That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,

    Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.

    At once, as far as Angel’s ken, he views

    The dismal situation waste and wild.

    A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,

    As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames

    No light; but rather darkness visible

    Served only to discover sights of woe,

    Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace

    And rest can never dwell, hope never comes

    That comes to all, but torture without end

    Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed

    With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.

    Such place Eternal Justice had prepared

    For those rebellious; here their prison ordained

    In utter darkness, and their portion set,

    As far removed from God and light of Heaven

    As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.

    Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell!

    There the companions of his fall, o’erwhelmed

    With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,

    He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side,

    One next himself in power, and next in crime,

    Long after known in Palestine, and named

    BEËLZEBUB. To whom the Arch-Enemy,

    And thence in Heaven called SATAN, with bold words

    Breaking the horrid silence, thus began:—

    "If thou beest he—but 0 how fallen! how changed

    From him!—who, in the happy realms of light,

    Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine

    Myriads, though bright-if he whom mutual league,

    United thoughts and counsels, equal hope

    And hazard in the glorious enterprise,

    Joined with me once, now misery hath joined

    In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest

    From what highth fallen: so much the stronger proved

    He with his thunder: and till then who knew

    The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those,

    Nor what the potent Victor in his rage

    Can else inflict, do I repent, or change,

    Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed mind,

    And high disdain from sense of injured merit,

    That with the Mightiest raised me to contend,

    And to the fierce contention brought along

    Innumerable force of Spirits armed,

    That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,

    His utmost power with adverse power opposed

    In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven,

    And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?

    All is not lost—the unconquerable will,

    And study of revenge, immortal hate,

    And courage never to submit or yield:

    And what is else not to be overcome.

    That glory never shall his wrath or might

    Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace

    With suppliant knee, and deify his power

    Who, from the terror of this arm, so late

    Doubted his empire—that were low indeed;

    That were an ignominy and shame beneath

    This downfall; since, by fate, the strength of Gods,

    And this empyreal substance, cannot fail;

    Since, through experience of this great event,

    In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced,

    We may with more successful hope resolve

    To wage by force or guile eternal war,

    Irreconcilable to our grand Foe,

    Who now triumphs, and in the excess of joy

    Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven: "

    So spake the apostate Angel, though in pain,

    Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair;

    And him thus answered soon his bold compeer:—

    "O Prince, O Chief of many thronèd Powers

    That led the embattled Seraphim to war

    Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds

    Fearless, endangered Heaven’s perpetual King,

    And put to proof his high supremacy,

    Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate!

    Too well I see and rue the dire event

    That, with sad overthrow and foul defeat,

    Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty host

    In horrible destruction laid thus low,

    As far as Gods and Heavenly Essences

    Can perish: for the mind and spirit remains

    Invincible, and vigor soon returns,

    Though all our glory extinct, and happy state

    Here swallowed up in endless misery.

    But what if He our Conqueror (whom I now

    Of force believe almighty, since no less

    Than such could have o’erpowered such force as ours)

    Have left us this our spirit and strength entire,

    Strongly to suffer and support our pains,

    That we may so suffice his vengeful ire

    Or do him mightier service as his thralls

    By right of war, whate’er his business be,

    Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire,

    Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep?

    What can it then avail though yet we feel

    Strength undiminished, or eternal being

    To undergo eternal punishment?"

    Whereto with speedy words the Arch-Fiend replied:—

    "Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable,

    Doing or suffering: but of this be sure—

    To do aught good never will be our task,

    But ever to do ill our sole delight,

    As being the contrary to His high will

    Whom we resist. If then his providence

    Out of our evil seek to bring forth good,

    Our labor must be to pervert that end,

    And out of good still to find means of evil;

    Which ofttimes may succeed so as perhaps

    Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb

    His inmost counsels from their destined aim.

    But see! the angry Victor hath recalled

    His ministers of vengeance and pursuit

    Back to the gates of Heaven: the sulphurous hail,

    Shot after us in storm, o’erblown hath laid

    The fiery surge that from the precipice

    Of Heaven received us falling; and the thunder,

    Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage,

    Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now

    To bellow through the vast and boundless Deep.

    Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn

    Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe.

    Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,

    The seat of desolation, void of light,

    Save what the glimmering of these livid flames

    Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend

    From off the tossing of these fiery waves;

    There rest, if any rest can harbor there;

    And, re-assembling our afflicted powers,

    Consult how we may henceforth most offend

    Our enemy, our own loss how repair,

    How overcome this dire calamity,

    What reinforcement we may gain from hope,

    If not what resolution from despair."

    Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate,

    With head uplift above the wave, and eyes

    That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides

    Prone on the flood, extended long and large,

    Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge

    As whom the fables name of monstrous size,

    Titanian or Earth-born, that warred on Jove,

    Briareos or Typhon, whom the den

    By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast

    Leviathan, which God of all his works

    Created hugest that swim the ocean-stream.

    Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam,

    The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff,

    Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell,

    With fixed anchor in his scaly rind,

    Moors by his side under the lee, while night

    Invests the sea, and wished morn delays.

    So stretched out huge in length the Arch-Fiend lay,

    Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thence

    Had risen, or heaved his head, but that the will

    And high permission of all-ruling Heaven

    Left him at large to his own dark designs,

    That with reiterated crimes he might

    Heap on himself damnation, while he sought

    Evil to others, and enraged might see

    How all his malice served but to bring forth

    Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn

    On Man by him seduced, but on himself

    Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured.

    Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool

    His mighty stature; on each hand the flames

    Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and, rolled

    In billows, leave i’ the midst a horrid vale.

    Then with expanded wings he steers his flight

    Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air,

    That felt unusual weight; till on dry land

    He lights—if it were land that ever burned

    With solid, as the lake with liquid fire,

    And such appeared in hue as when the force

    Of subterranean wind transports a hill

    Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side

    Of thundering Ætna, whose combustible

    And fuelled entrails, thence conceiving fire,

    Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds,

    And leave a singed bottom all involved

    With stench and smoke. Such resting found the sole

    Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate;

    Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood

    As gods, and by their own recovered strength,

    Not by the sufferance of supernal power.

    Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,

    Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat

    That we must change for Heaven?—this mournful gloom

    For that celestial light? Be it so, since He

    Who now is sovran can dispose and bid

    What shall be right: farthest from Him is best,

    Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme

    Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,

    Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,

    Infernal World! and thou, profoundest Hell,

    Receive thy new possessor—one who brings

    A mind not to be changed by place or time.

    The mind is its own place, and in itself

    Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

    What matter where, if I be still the same,

    And what I should be, all but less than he

    Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least

    We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built

    Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:

    Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,

    To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:

    Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

    But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,

    The associates and co-partners of our loss,

    Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,

    And call them not to share with us their part

    In this unhappy mansion, or once more

    With rallied arms to try what may be yet

    Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell?"

    So Satan spoke; and him Beëlzebub

    Thus answered:—"Leader of those armies bright

    Which, but the Omnipotent, none could have foiled!

    If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge

    Of hope in fears and dangers—heard so oft

    In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge

    Of battle, when it raged, in all assaults

    Their surest signal—they will soon resume

    New courage and revive, though now they lie

    Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire,

    As we erewhile, astounded and amazed;

    No wonder, fallen such a pernicious highth!"

    He scarce had ceased when the superior Fiend

    Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield,

    Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,

    Behind him cast. The broad circumference

    Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb

    Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views

    At evening, from the top of Fesolè,

    Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,

    Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.

    His spear—to equal which the tallest pine

    Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast

    Of some great ammiral, were but a wand—

    He walked with, to support uneasy steps

    Over the burning marle, not like those steps

    On Heaven’s azure; and the torrid clime

    Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.

    Nathless he so endured, till on the beach

    Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called

    His legions—Angel Forms, who lay entranced

    Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks

    In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades

    High over-arched embower; or scattered sedge

    Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed

    Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves o’erthrew

    Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,

    While with perfidious hatred they pursued

    The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld

    From the safe shore their floating carcases

    And broken chariot-wheels. So thick bestrown,

    Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood,

    Under amazement of their hideous change.

    He called so loud that all the hollow deep

    Of Hell resounded:—"Princes, Potentates,

    Warriors, the Flower of Heaven—once yours; now lost,

    If such astonishment as this can seize

    Eternal Spirits! Or have ye chosen this place

    After the toil of battle to repose

    Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find

    To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven?

    Or in this abject posture have ye sworn

    To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds

    Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood

    With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon

    His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern

    The advantage, and, descending, tread us down

    Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts

    Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf?—

    Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen!"

    They heard, and were abashed, and up they sprung

    Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch,

    On duty sleeping found by whom they dread,

    Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.

    Nor did they not perceive the evil plight

    In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel;

    Yet to their General’s voice they soon obeyed

    Innumerable. As when the potent rod

    Of Amram’s son, in Egypt’s evil day,

    Waved round the coast, up-called a pitchy cloud

    Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind,

    That o‘er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung

    Like Night, and darkened all the land of Nile;

    So numberless were those bad Angels seen

    Hovering on wing under the cope of Hell,

    ’Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires;

    Till, as a signal given, the uplifted spear

    Of their great Sultan waving to direct

    Their course, in even balance down they light

    On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain:

    A multitude like which the populous North

    Poured never from her frozen loins to pass

    Rhene or the Danaw, when her barbarous sons

    Came like a deluge on the South, and spread

    Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.

    Forthwith, from every squadron and each band,

    The heads and leaders thither haste where stood

    Their great Commander—godlike Shapes, and Forms

    Excelling human; princely Dignities;

    And Powers that erst in Heaven sat on thrones,

    Though of their names in Heavenly records now

    Be no memorial, blotted out and rased

    By their rebellion from the Books of Life.

    Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve

    Got them new names, till, wandering o’er the earth,

    Through God’s high sufferance for the trial of man,

    By falsities and lies the greatest part

    Of mankind they corrupted to forsake

    God their Creator, and the invisible

    Glory of Him that made them to transform

    Oft to the image of a brute, adorned

    With gay religions full of pomp and gold,

    And devils to adore for deities:

    Then were they known to men by various names,

    And various idols through the Heathen World.

    Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, who last,

    Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch,

    At their great Emperor’s call, as next in worth

    Came singly where he stood on the bare strand,

    While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof.

    The chief were those who, from the pit of Hell

    Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix

    Their seats, long after, next the seat of God,

    Their altars by His altar, gods adored

    Among the nations round, and durst abide

    Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned

    Between the Cherubim; yea, often placed

    Within His sanctuary itself their shrines,

    Abominations; and with cursed things

    His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned,

    And with their darkness durst affront his light.

    First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood

    Of human sacrifice, and parents’ tears;

    Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud,

    Their children’s cries unheard that passed through fire

    To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite

    Worshiped in Rabba and her watery plain,

    In Argob and in Basan, to the stream

    Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such

    Audacious neighborhood, the wisest heart

    Of Solomon he led by fraud to build

    His temple right against the temple of God

    On that opprobrious hill, and made his grove

    The pleasant valley of Hinnom, Tophet thence

    And black Gehenna called, the type of Hell.

    Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab’s sons,

    From Aroar to Nebo and the wild

    Of southmost Abarim; in Hesebon

    And Horonaim, Seon’s realm, beyond

    The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines,

    And Elealè to the Asphaltic Pool:

    Peor his other name, when he enticed

    Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile,

    To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe.

    Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged

    Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove

    Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate,

    Till good Josiah drove them thence to Hell.

    With these came they who, from the bordering flood

    Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts

    Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names

    Of Baalim and Ashtaroth—those male,

    These feminine. For Spirits, when they please,

    Can either sex assume, or both; so soft

    And uncompounded is their essence pure,

    Not tied or manacled with joint or limb,

    Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,

    Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape they choose,

    Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure,

    Can execute their aery purposes,

    And works of love or enmity fulfil.

    For those the race of Israel oft forsook

    Their Living Strength, and unfrequented left

    His righteous altar, bowing lowly down

    To bestial gods; for which their heads, as low

    Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear

    Of despicable foes. With these in troop

    Came Astoreth, whom the Phœnicians called

    Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns;

    To whose bright image nightly by the moon

    Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs;

    In Sion also not unsung, where stood

    Her temple on the offensive mountain, built

    By that uxorious king whose heart, though large,

    Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell

    To idols foul. Thammuz came next behind,

    Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured

    The Syrian damsels to lament his fate

    In amorous ditties all a summer’s day,

    While smooth Adonis from his native rock

    Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood

    Of Thammuz yearly wounded: the love-tale

    Infected Sion’s daughters with like heat,

    Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch

    Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led,

    His eye surveyed the dark idolatries

    Of alienated Judah. Next came one

    Who mourned in earnest, when the captive ark

    Maimed his brute image, head and hands lopt off,

    In his own temple, on the grunsel-edge,

    Where he fell flat and shamed his worshipers:

    Dagon his name, sea-monster, upward man

    And downward fish; yet had his temple high

    Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast

    Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon,

    And Accaron and Gaza’s frontier bounds.

    Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat

    Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks

    Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.

    He also against the house of God was bold:

    A leper once he lost, and gained a king—

    Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew

    God’s altar to disparage and displace

    For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn

    His odious offerings, and adore the gods

    Whom he had vanquished. After these appeared

    A crew who, under names of old renown—

    Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train—

    With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused

    Fanatic Egypt and her priests to seek

    Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms

    Rather than human. Nor did Israel scape

    The infection, when their borrowed gold composed

    The calf in Oreb; and the rebel king

    Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan,

    Likening his Maker to the grazed ox—

    Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passed

    From Egypt marching, equalled with one stroke

    Both her first-born and all her bleating gods.

    Belial came last; than whom a spirit more lewd

    Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love

    Vice for itself. To him no temple stood

    Or altar smoked; yet who more oft than he

    In temples and at altars, when the priest

    Turns atheist, as did Eli’s sons, who filled

    With lust and violence the house of God?

    In courts and palaces he also reigns,

    And in luxurious cities, where the noise

    Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers,

    And injury and outrage; and, when night

    Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons

    Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

    Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night

    In Gibeah, when the hospitable door

    Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape.

    These were the prime in order and in might:

    The rest were long to tell; though far renowned

    The Ionian gods—of Javan’s issue held

    Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and Earth,

    Their boasted parents;—Titan, Heaven’s first-born,

    With his enormous brood, and birthright seized

    By younger Saturn: he from mightier Jove,

    His own and Rhea’s son, like measure found;

    So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in Crete

    And Ida known, thence on the snowy top

    Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air,

    Their highest heaven; or on the Delphian cliff,

    Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds

    Of Doric land; or who with Saturn old

    Fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields,

    And o’er the Celtic roamed the utmost Isles.

    All these and more came flocking; but with looks

    Downcast and damp; yet such wherein appeared

    Obscure some glimpse of joy to have found their Chief

    Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost

    In loss itself which on his countenance cast

    Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted pride

    Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore

    Semblance of worth, not substance, gently raised

    Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears:

    Then straight commands that, at the warlike sound

    Of trumpets loud and clarions, be upreared

    His mighty standard. That proud honor claimed

    Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall:

    Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurled

    The imperial ensign; which, full high advanced,

    Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind,

    With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,

    Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while

    Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds:

    At which the universal host up-sent

    A shout that tore Hell’s concave, and beyond

    Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.

    All in a moment through the gloom were seen

    Ten thousand banners rise into the air,

    With orient colors waving: with them rose

    A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms

    Appeared, and serried shields in thick array

    Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move

    In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood

    Of flutes and soft recorders—such as raised

    To highth of noblest temper heroes old

    Arming to battle, and instead of rage

    Deliberate valor breathed, firm, and unmoved

    With dread of death to flight or foul retreat;

    Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage

    With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase

    Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain

    From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they,

    Breathing united force with fixèd thought,

    Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed

    Their painful steps o’er the burnt soil. And now

    Advanced in view they stand—a horrid front

    Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise

    Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield,

    Awaiting what command their mighty Chief

    Had to impose. He through the armed files

    Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse

    The whole battalion views—their order due,

    Their visages and stature as of gods;

    Their number last he sums. And now his heart

    Distends with pride, and, hardening in his strength,

    Glories: for never, since created Man,

    Met such embodied force as, named with these,

    Could merit more than that small infantry

    Warred on by cranes—though all the giant brood

    Of Phlegra with the heroic race were joined

    That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side

    Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what resounds

    In fable or romance of Uther’s son,

    Begirt with British and Armoric knights;

    And all who since, baptized or infidel,

    Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban,

    Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond,

    Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore

    When Charlemain with all his peerage fell

    By Fontarabia. Thus far these beyond

    Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed

    Their dread Commander. He, above the rest

    In shape and gesture proudly eminent,

    Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost

    All her original brightness, nor appeared

    Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess

    Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen

    Looks through the horizontal misty air

    Shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon,

    In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds

    On half the nations, and with fear of change

    Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone

    Above them all the Archangel: but his face

    Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care

    Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows

    Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride

    Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast

    Signs of remorse and passion, to behold

    The fellows of his crime, the followers rather

    (Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned

    For ever now to have their lot in pain—

    Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced

    Of Heaven, and from eternal splendors flung

    For his revolt—yet faithful how they stood,

    Their glory withered; as, when heaven’s fire

    Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines,

    With singed top their stately growth, though bare,

    Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared

    To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend

    From wing to wing, and half enclose him round

    With all his peers: Attention held them mute.

    Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn,

    Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth: at last

    Words interwove with sighs found out their way:—

    "O myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers

    Matchless, but with the Almighty!—and that strife

    Was not inglorious, though the event was dire,

    As this place testifies, and this dire change,

    Hateful to utter. But what power of mind,

    Forseeing or presaging, from the depth

    Of knowledge past or present, could have feared

    How such united force of gods, how such

    As stood like these, could ever know repulse?

    For who can yet believe, though after loss,

    That all these puissant legions, whose exile

    Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascend,

    Self-raised, and re-possess their native seat?

    For me, be witness all the host of Heaven,

    If counsels different, or danger shunned

    By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns

    Monarch in Heaven till then as one secure

    Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute,

    Consent or custom, and his regal state

    Put forth at full, but still his strength concealed—

    Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall.

    Henceforth his might we know, and know our own,

    So as not either to provoke, or dread

    New war provoked: our better part remains

    To work in close design, by fraud or guile,

    What force effected not; that he no less

    At length from us may find, Who overcomes

    By force hath overcome but half his foe.

    Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife

    There went a fame in Heaven that He ere long

    Intended to create, and therein plant

    A generation whom his choice regard

    Should favor equal to the Sons of Heaven.

    Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps

    Our first eruption—thither, or elsewhere;

    For this infernal pit shall never hold

    Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the Abyss

    Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts

    Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired;

    For who can think submission? War, then, war

    Open or understood, must be resolved."

    He spake; and, to confirm his words, out-flew

    Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs

    Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze

    Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged

    Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms

    Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war,

    Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

    There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top

    Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire

    Shone with a glossy scurf—undoubted sign

    That in his womb was hid metallic ore,

    The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed,

    A numerous brigad hastened: as when bands

    Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed,

    Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field,

    Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on—

    Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell

    From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts

    Were always downward bent, admiring more

    The riches of Heaven’s pavement, trodden gold,

    Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed

    In vision beatific. By him first

    Men also, and by his suggestion taught,

    Ransacked the Centre, and with impious hands

    Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth

    For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew

    Opened into the hill a spacious wound,

    And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire

    That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best

    Deserve the precious bane. And here let those

    Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell

    Of Babel, and the works of Memphian kings,

    Learn how their greatest monuments of fame

    And strength, and art, are easily outdone

    By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour

    What in an age they, with incessant toil

    And hands innumerable, scarce perform.

    Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared,

    That underneath had veins of liquid fire

    Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude

    With wondrous art founded the massy ore,

    Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion-dross.

    A third as soon had formed within the ground

    A various mould, and from the boiling cells

    By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook;

    As in an organ, from one blast of wind,

    To many a row of pipes the sound-board breathes.

    Anon out of the earth a fabric huge

    Rose like an exhalation, with the sound

    Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet—

    Built like a temple, where pilasters round

    Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid

    With golden architrave; nor did there want

    Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven:

    The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon

    Nor great Alcairo such magnificence

    Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine

    Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat

    Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove

    In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile

    Stood fixed her stately highth; and straight the doors,

    Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide

    Within, her ample spaces o‘er the smooth

    And level pavement: from the arched roof,

    Pendent by subtle magic, many a row

    Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed

    With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light

    As from a sky. The hasty multitude

    Admiring entered; and the work some praise,

    And some the architect. His hand was known

    In Heaven by many a towered structure high,

    Where sceptred Angels held their residence,

    And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King

    Exalted to such power, and gave to rule,

    Each in his hierarchy, the Orders bright.

    Nor was his name unheard or unadored

    In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land

    Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell

    From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry Jove

    Sheer o’er the crystal battlements: from morn

    To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,

    A summer’s day, and with the setting sun

    Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star,

    On Lemnos, the Ægaean isle. Thus they relate,

    Erring; for he with this rebellious rout

    Fell long before; nor aught availed him now

    To have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he scape

    By all his engines, but was headlong sent,

    With his industrious crew, to build in Hell.

    Meanwhile the winged Heralds, by command

    Of sovran power, with awful ceremony

    And trumpet’s sound, throughout the host proclaim

    A solemn council forthwith to be held

    At Pandemonium, the high capital

    Of Satan and his peers. Their summons called

    From every band and squared regiment

    By place or choice the worthiest: they anon

    With hundreds and with thousands trooping came

    Attended. All access was thronged; the gates

    And porches wide, but chief the spacious hall

    (Though like a covered field, where champions bold

    Wont ride in armed, and at the Soldan’s chair

    Defied the best of Panim chivalry

    To mortal combat, or career with lance),

    Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air,

    Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As bees

    In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus rides.

    Pour forth their populous youth about the hive

    In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers

    Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank,

    The suburb of their straw-built citadel,

    New rubbed with balm, expatiate, and confer

    Their state affairs: so thick the aery crowd

    Swarmed and were straitened; till, the signal given,

    Behold a wonder! They but now who seemed

    In bigness to surpass Earth’s giant sons,

    Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room

    Throng numberless—like that pygmean race

    Beyond the Indian mount; or faery elves,

    Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side

    Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,

    Or dreams he sees, while overhead the Moon

    Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth

    Wheels her pale course: they, on their mirth and dance

    Intent, with jocund music charm his ear;

    At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.

    Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms

    Reduced their shapes immense, and were at large,

    Though without number still, amidst the hall

    Of that infernal court. But far within,

    And in their own dimensions like themselves,

    The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim

    In close recess and secret conclave sat,

    A thousand demi-gods on golden seats,

    Frequent and full. After short silence then,

    And summons read, the great consult began.

    BOOK II

    THE ARGUMENT

    THE consultation begun, Satan debates whether another battle be to be hazarded for the recovery of Heaven: some advise it, others dissuade. A third proposal is preferred, mentioned before by Satan—to search the truth of that prophecy or tradition in Heaven concerning another world, and another kind of creature, equal, or not much inferior, to themselves, about this time to be created. Their doubt who shall be sent on this difficult search: Satan, their chief, undertakes alone the voyage; is honored and applauded. The council, thus ended, the rest betake them several ways and to several employments, as their inclinations lead them, to entertain the time till Satan return. He passes on his journey to Hell-gates; finds them shut, and who sat there to guard them; by whom at length they are opened, and discover to him the great gulf between Hell and Heaven. With what difficulty he passes through, directed by Chaos, the Power of that place, to the sight of this new World which he sought.

    High on a throne of royal state, which far

    Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,

    Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand

    Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,

    Satan exalted sat, by merit raised

    To that bad eminence; and, from despair

    Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires

    Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue

    Vain war with Heaven; and, by success untaught,

    His proud imaginations thus displayed:—

    "Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven!—

    For, since no deep within her gulf can hold

    Immortal vigor, though oppressed and fallen,

    I give not Heaven for lost: from this descent

    Celestial Virtues rising will appear

    More glorious and more dread than from no fall,

    And trust themselves to fear no second fate!—

    Me though just right, and the fixed laws of Heaven,

    Did first create your leader—next, free choice,

    With what besides in council or in fight

    Hath been achieved of merit—yet this loss,

    Thus far at least recovered, hath much more

    Established in a safe, unenvied throne,

    Yielded with full consent. The happier state

    In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw

    Envy from each inferior; but who here

    Will envy whom the highest place exposes

    Foremost to stand against the Thunderer’s aim

    Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share

    Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no good

    For which to strive, no strife can grow up there

    From faction: for none sure will claim in Hell

    Precedence; none whose portion is so small

    Of present pain that with ambitious mind

    Will covet more! With this advantage, then,

    To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,

    More than can be in Heaven, we now return

    To claim our just inheritance of old,

    Surer to prosper than prosperity

    Could have assured us; and by what best way,

    Whether of open war or covert guile,

    We now debate. Who can advise may speak."

    He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king,

    Stood up—the strongest and the fiercest Spirit

    That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair.

    His trust was with the Eternal to be deemed

    Equal in strength, and rather than be less

    Cared not to be at all; with that care lost

    Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse,

    He recked not, and these words thereafter spake:—

    "My sentence is for open war. Of wiles,

    More unexpert, I boast not: them let those

    Contrive who need, or when they need; not now.

    For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest—

    Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait

    The signal to ascend—sit lingering here,

    Heaven’s fugitives, and for their dwelling-place

    Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame,

    The prison of His tyranny who reigns

    By our delay? No! let us rather choose,

    Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at once

    O’er Heaven’s high towers to force resistless way,

    Turning our tortures into horrid arms

    Against the Torturer; when, to meet the noise

    Of his almighty engine, he shall hear

    Infernal thunder, and, for lightning, see

    Black fire and horror shot with equal rage

    Among his Angels, and his throne itself

    Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,

    His own invented torments. But perhaps

    The way seems difficult, and steep to scale

    With upright wing against a higher foe!

    Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench

    Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,

    That in our proper motion we ascend

    Up to our native seat; descent and fall

    To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,

    When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear

    Insulting, and pursued us through the Deep,

    With what compulsion and laborious flight

    We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy, then;

    The event is feared! Should we again provoke

    Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find

    To our destruction, if there be in Hell

    Fear to be worse destroyed! What can be worse

    Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned

    In this abhorred deep to utter woe;

    Where pain of unextinguishable fire

    Must exercise us without hope of end

    The vassals of his anger, when the scourge

    Inexorably, and the torturing hour,

    Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus,

    We should be quite abolished, and expire.

    What fear we then? what doubt we to incense

    His utmost ire? which, to the highth enraged,

    Will either quite consume us, and reduce

    To nothing this essential—happier far

    Than miserable to have eternal being!—

    Or, if our substance be indeed divine,

    And cannot cease to be, we are at worst

    On this side nothing; and by proof we feel

    Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven,

    And with perpetual inroads to alarm,

    Though inaccessible, his fatal throne:

    Which, if not victory, is yet revenge."

    He ended frowning, and his look denounced

    Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous

    To less than gods. On the other side up rose

    Belial, in act more graceful and

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